


Not Here

by sailtheplains



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, rough and tumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailtheplains/pseuds/sailtheplains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short piece about Germany and America and the things they have in common</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Here

Germany showed very little signs of his emotions. They are always kept in a very little box, buried in concrete and possibly thrown to the bottom of the sea. Prussia is the only one who has ever seen his rage, his frustration—even tears, though those had been when he was a boy (and once a few years back, and once more several other years back).

Prussia had been the one who sat with him after the War. Never said, “I told you this would happen.” Never mocked or belittled him. Prussia gave himself to Russia to stand as East Germany to protect him. Prussia must have known that that would be the true beginning of the end for him. He went anyway.

America was with him afterwards almost constantly, helping him rebuild. There was some kinship there—America had many, many Germans and Prussians living in his country. Prussia had trained both of them in war—they talked a lot about Prussia to fill the silence.

Neither minded silence, really—but somehow, it seemed necessary to fill it—like a vacuum.

During these years, America saw Germany’s intensity, his iron resolve to overcome all the obstacles set before him. A young nation like himself but in a restraining jacket of an Old One. The Imperial ambition of Prussia with the courage to throw himself into new methods of war—machines, science—

So many German scientists had come to America.

So the two lived in close quarters for a long time. And after the wall fell—well, they continued to see each other at meetings and such. When Prussia would go out and drink with Denmark and England—inevitably, they would meet up at the local police station to collect them.

“No one else seems to understand why I don’t just let him sit in jail for the night.”

America smiled. “I know what you mean.” He put an arm around England, who swore thickly at him. “France told me to leave him.”

“Prussia drinks his sorrows away. England is similar in this.”

America chuckled. “Yeah.”

Around Germany, America doesn’t have to pretend to act like he thinks he’s the best—he doesn’t have to pretend that he has something to prove. Around Germany, he feels normal, more relaxed, more genuine. He doesn’t have to strive for attention and acceptance like he does with the Old Ones. Or put up with constant snide comments from Canada or anyone else.

Around Germany he can just….be himself. And talk about electronics and rifles and cars and what project he and Japan and Germany can work on together…

The first time they come together, it’s a surprise—and yet isn’t. They drink together after meetings—a tradition of theirs. A time when Italy isn’t there to beg for Germany’s attention, when America can just relax and sit with his friend and recover from the performance he just had to put on.

They drank more than usual and America put his arm around Germany—they are the same height. They staggered upstairs together—the staff think they are brothers. They don’t do anything to dissuade them of this idea. They practically are.

America’s door was closer, they stumbled into it—snickering quietly and laughing.

“I feel like I’m standin on an earthquake in the Rocky mountains.”

“Rocky mountain high,” Germany muttered.

America somehow managed the keycard, snorting, singing, “When you’re on that Rocky Mountain hang your head and cry.” America pulled him in and shut the door. The room was quiet, close. Something about the beer made him braver. He pulled Germany to him and hugged him.

“I won’t cry,” Germany said, the word ending with a little chuckle.

“I hope not.” America found his mouth.

Germany blinked. He stiffened. America was not weak and he could feel the brute force pressing him back, back against the wall. “Amer—“

“Don’t call me that…” America managed, eyes closed. “I don’t want to be a nation here too.” He kissed him again.

Germany grabbed back into him. They were similar in stature too—muscular and strong. America’s blond hair, similar to his own, blue eyes like his own—but the glasses. Germany jerked them off his face—America looked younger without them. They fell aside somewhere.

America opened his eyes—this time Germany met him halfway. Their mouths were rough, biting—nothing soft about it. He shoved America back—America latched onto his shirt—jerked it. Germany heard the seams and buttons tear and then hands—calloused, rough—were on him. He grabbed back, yanked America’s t-shirt off over his head.

He heard America chuckle. “Ah—shit—what the—“ He tripped on his luggage, fell backwards, pulling Germany with him. America grunted, landing awkwardly on the suitcase—Germany took the opportunity to grab both his wrists in one hand and pin it to the bed behind them. He raked his eyes over America, frowned as his free hand drug down his chest, grabbing his belt and snapping it off. Glared as he drug the other young nation’s slacks down and scowled when he grabbed his cock.

He listened to America shudder a little, cursing softly—he was aggressive too. He flipped back, throwing Germany over his head so he landed on his back on the bed above him. America leapt up—instantly tripped on his slacks, laughing quietly and cursing again as he fought them off to get on the mattress—giving Germany enough time to get his bearings and grab him by the arm, shoving him down on the blanket. Hands get into his hair and Germany’s head suddenly hit the pillow and America was on him, straddling his thigh. He seemed to take it as a competition to snap his belt off in one pull.

Germany grabbed his head and yanked him down—their mouths collided, breath heavy and mixing as America fought his trousers and boxers off. Germany grumbled-—tried to shove the other off—stilling when, instead, Alfred nipped down his throat, kissing there, suddenly gentler. Though he bit down when Germany tries to push him off. Germany’s breath hitched, “You are—“

“If you call me a fatass, Ludwig, I will punch you in the balls.”

Germany blinked, “I would not say such a rude thing to you. You aren’t fat at all.” He met America’s blue eyes, studying each other for a moment.

“thanks,” America finally said and sucked hard on his nipple.

Germany pulled at his hair, trying to haul him up but America was having none of it right now and he continued downward. His tongue was slow, deliberate on him. Mouth hot and damp, a slow and steady suction, even slower moving.

“Alfred—“ Germany grumbled.

He responded by bobbing slightly—

Germany huffed—groaning, manhandling him up and just like that he was on his knees in one fluid movement, slamming America up against the headboard.

“that’s more like it,” America breathed, voice low and husky. “That’s—ah—“

Germany did not waste any time, pressing up against his back, grabbing his cock in his fist. “Do you have—ah—oil?”

America’s arm muscles bulged out with the strain—keeping himself still and under control as Germany stroked him. “Y-yeah—ah—nightstand—go for it.”

When Germany did—America grabbed him and flipped him onto his front. He laid on Germany’s back, snatching the oil from his hand. “Gotcha.”

They scuffled for the lubricant, ending up slathering both their hands and side by side—grabbing each other. Stroking, stroking—breath mixing, America kissed him again, there was tongue involved. Germany went for it, he felt America’s hands in his hair now—they rubbed against each other. Germany’s grip was bruising on America’s broad shoulder and he could feel the returning blue-purple spreading in his ribs—

\--America’s touch digging into scarring—thick and heavy and white with age. From many years ago... at Normandy when he fought Canada on a summer morning in June.

The thrill of battle, the rush of adrenaline. The narrowing of focus—it was happening, Germany could feel it—feel it as his body tensed, his abdomen tightened—met another fiery kiss from America—and grunted against him softly—fingers and palms on hot, thick veins and heavy, damp heads--coming.

America came right after and sunk into him. He shuddered a little. “You know…you look younger with your hair all mussed…”

Germany snorted quietly. “You do with your glasses off. But that is why we do these things, correct?”

“True story,” America acknowledged, a small smile on his face.

“This—as we were…it is like battle. A fight. You know this, right?”

America nodded. “I feel the same way. The rush, everything…it’s the closest thing I can get anymore to feeling like I can let go…”

Germany nodded back. His hair was everywhere, sticking to sweat on his forehead. “We may as well not drink next time.”

America nodded again. He stared at the ceiling. “Yeah…that would be nice. So many of us have so many problems from being alive so long…be nice to not have to use pretenses like some of the others do…”

“Next time it will be done properly.”

America snorted. “What? The German way? I don’t like sausage _that_ much.” He looked over to see Germany giving him a sarcastic glare. America laughed.

Germany smiled a little, rolled his eyes and started to turn over. He felt America up against his back almost immediately; shuddered—feeling a hand slide down to his thighs, stroke him gently. “America—“

“No worries.” America grinned a little, kissed his shoulder, arm—sliding down to mouth at his hip, engulfing his cock. His eyes went up, watching Germany’s eyes screw shut and his teeth grit. He made almost no sound, his restraint was almost impressive. America’s tongue slid over him—hot and thick, the pulsing vein coming to life—and still, Germany’s breathing only hitched quietly. He rubbed his tongue under the head, slid his hands up to touch his balls. Just a shuddered, fingers fisting in the sheets. Even when Germany came, he only made that quiet grunt again.

America smiled as he slid back up his body and nosed at him. “Definitely gonna work on getting you to make some noise.”

Germany finally smiled fully, laughing silently. “You will have to work very hard.”

“Hey, Hard Work is my middle name.”

“I thought it was ‘F’ for Franklin or Fredrick or something.”

“That stands for ‘Fucking’. Alfred Fucking Jones, yeah?”

Germany laughed quietly again. “Yes, I believe that is Prussia’s middle name too.”

“See, destiny.”

“You don’t believe in destiny,” Germany said, something else in his steely eyes.

America’s smile gentled, something more nostalgic. “That’s true. I don’t. But I do believe in self-fullfilling prophecies.” He chuckled.

“Indeed,” Germany said. “Let us sleep then and tomorrow we can fulfill more.”

“Oh, I’ll fill something all right.”

“Oh, God, stop it.”

America laughed softly and curled up next to him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[[Unfinished headcanon about [Canada fighting Germany](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3982375) on D-Day.]]  



End file.
